Asymmetry
by elomelo
Summary: Bruce Wayne is Libria's top Grammaton Cleric. When Kal-El of Krypton enters the equation as a cultural agent invited by Father in hopes of forming a planetary alliance, he becames a catlyst in Bruce's path to feeling. Bruce/Clark, slash, major crossover.
1. Chapter 00: Prologue

**Title:** Asymmetry  
**Fandom: **Nolanverse/Superman Returns/Equilibrium  
**Pairing: **Bruce/Clark  
**Rating:** PG-13 to M  
**Summary: **Cleric Bruce Wayne is Libria's top enforcing officer - and Kal-El's newest assignment.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing but this idea.  
**Notes: **I'm already working on a movieverse Bruce/Clark longfic but this idea just won't leave me alone. (If you haven't watched Equilibrium, Youtube if your best best. But you didn't hear it from me). I hope someone finds this entertaining. Comments are love and love is welcome.

_This story will be also be posted on my LJ (see my profile). Chances are it will be updated there first._

* * *

**01. PROLOGUE**

_But I, being poor, have only my dreams;  
__I have spread my dreams under your feet;  
__Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. _

Kal carefully marked the page with a crimson ribbon and put the thin book back in its place in the second drawer of his desk. If he wanted, he could have had the contents of the yellowed pages transferred into his holo-pad but there was a quiet wonder in running a gloved finger over the black printing as he wet his lips with the English words, almost tasting the ink in the back of his throat.

He'd never tasted ink, of course, and the archives weren't very forthcoming on the _taste_ of a substance used in human writing. But he liked to think it'd be sharp, like the golden nib of an antique (how he relished the word) fountain pen, as rendered in the digital he'd saved in his personal folder –

"I hope you're not reading that human import again, cousin."

– a folder Kara had no business knowing about. They'd agreed to share an office and spacious that it was, all clean lines and stainless steel, it was no match for the House of El's inherent curiosity. That was putting it politely.

"Import?" Kal raised a brow. "You make it sound so...clinical."

"It's what it is."

"It's _Yeats_."

"What?"

"Never mind. Don't you have a report to write or something?" He made a show of being very interested in the screen in front of him.

Blue eyes, a shade lighter than his own, regarded him coolly over a steaming cup of coffee – a very human import, he was about to say when their holo-pads started beeping.

"Council meeting." Kara rose, silencing and pocketing the device in one swift, practiced movement, watching Kal struggling to do the same in cool bemusement. "Oh, for Rao's sake, give it here, Kal." She didn't wait for him, snatching it out of his hands and pressing the appropriate button. "Let's go – it seems urgent."

He barely caught the device when she tossed it over her shoulders. By the time he'd found the pocket of his own robes, she was already at the transporter, head tilted in that infuriatingly patient way. Muttering under his breath, Kal left the room, only getting his robes caught by the doors once.

* * *

He stepped over the sixth body with practiced ease, the guns cooling in his gloved hands. The body was that of a man, bloodied hands clutching a battered record player. Contraband – a foreign item in this cramped room of blood, sweat and gunpowder. It'd be taken care of in due time, along with its unfortunate, glassy-eyed keeper.

The enforcers moved forward with a deftness that bought to mind the repeated blows of slick bamboo on the skin of his back. His skin had been raw and bleeding for days, stinging under the simple cut of the monastery tunic, but he'd learned his lesson. These men would too, someday, but not with blood on their backs but in their mouths.

"Here," he murmured, stopping at a narrow door way.

Light filtered in through a dirty window, running down the peeling wallpaper and onto the faded rug. A small room, even by rebel standards, and lacking the sharp smell of urine they'd found in all the other rooms. Here, there was just the smell of dust, of age.

_Always mind your surroundings._

His eyes narrowed. "This is it." In his peripheral, he could see Patridge shift, shoulders tensing ever so slightly.

"Where?"

"There."

Enforcers filed in, lifting the carpet, unsettling what looked like at least two years of dust. A section of the wooden planks underneath came loose with the persuasion of the crowbars, giving way to paintings he'd only seen in fuzzy digitals at the monastery.

Patridge's breath hitched behind him as they bought up the top piece: a woman, sans eyebrows and malice, half-smiling at him, hands folded, every part the picture of Renaissance grace.

_Sixteenth century. Oil on poplar panel. Florence, Italy. Previously owned by the Government of France and displayed in the now-demolished Musée du Louvre in Paris. Painted by Leonardo di ser Piero da Vinci. La Giocondo. La Joconde. The Mona Lisa._

He looked to the Inspector whose Verifier had probably accessed the same information from the list of contraband material that was part of the advanced monastery curriculum.

The instrument beeped in confirmation and the bespectacled Inspector half-nodded. "It's real."

He anticipated Patridge's flinch at his shoulder before he gave the order: "Burn it."


	2. Chapter 01: Duty

**01. DUTY **

White had never suited Wayne; it softened the sharp angles of his face and made him look almost human.

Bastard, thought Partridge, buckling his seatbelt. It was more of a habit than a precaution, what with the driver in a Prozium-induced stupor or whatever drug cocktail they pumped into the nameless types. Granted, the streets in these parts were never as quiet as those in the city, with rebels lurking in every corner (or so said the pamphlets in the Palace of Justice) so it was just as well the state vehicle moved at its sluggish pace.

Rain tapped the cool windows like children's fingers but Wayne seemed not to see it, absently wiping a stain just under the collar of his black uniform. His gloves, supple black leather, came away with something wet and dark that made Partridge's stomach lurch for the fifth time in the man's presence that day.

His meagre breakfast would look all too colourful on the white seats.

He took a steady breath and looked out the window, at the husks of buildings that lined the asphalt they'd lain over the people that couldn't outrun the tanks. Thirty years and he could still feel the flamethrower cooling in his hands after the first Scouring. He'd been one of the early recruits, orphaned by the war and hardened by the streets, hanging off Father's words like a man starved. His first dose was a prototype they'd tell him later, and had him retching like a sick dog while he shivered in an army-standard cot for a week. In a particularly painful spasm, he'd called out for a mother he barely remembered and someone had slapped him, hard enough to jar his teeth, and forced something bitter down his throat. When he'd come to, it was as if he'd been reborn in ice. When he'd snapped a rebel boy's neck, he'd dropped the dead child like a broken toy.

"Something wrong, Cleric?" Wayne's words were free of any real curiosity or concern, but the sharpness of his eyes was as unsettling as the way he had soundlessly drawn out a handkerchief and was wiping his gloved hands.

In a way, it was Wayne's brand of camaraderie, teasing him with questions they both knew he didn't care to know the answers to. If he said it was nothing, then he'd be questioned about the tenseness of his jaw and the subtle weight of his left pocket.

"Stomach pains," he said with a slight shrug of his shoulders, "I will be seeing a medic when we arrive."

Wayne looked at him for a moment before turning his attention to his window, muttering something nondescript about frequent check-ups. The handkerchief had disappeared as had the rain, bright sunlight pushing its way over jagged rooftops. A band of light fell over the younger man's face and, to his horror, Partridge felt a different lurch in his stomach.

_Nearly three weeks, Errol. You should know better._

And he did but the hands under his gloves itched for skin, be it that of a woman whose name he'd never learn or that of a man young enough to be his son. Either option could mean execution or worse: processing. He'd seen the files, heard the confessions between the screams and the sobbing, felt the hot blood in his hands.

Strangely enough, he found himself wondering if Preston's bullet to his jugular would be worth biting the man's lips and tasting the blood, the _surprise_. Would those unsmiling lips part in their surprise like the petals of some exotic, poisonous flower or – a delicious, horrible thrill went through him – would they press back in the same desperation?

Wayne shifted slightly beside him. "Why didn't you just leave it for the evidentiary team to collect and log?"

Partridge frowned in what he hoped was a good imitation of confusion, ignoring the way his heart thumped almost painfully when Wayne titled his head , exposing the juncture between his neck and his jaw. The other man's eyes flickered downwards pointedly.

_The bloody book. Of course._

It must have slipped out when they'd taken a sharp turn and Wayne had just been waiting for the right moment to bring it up. Partridge willed his hands to not tremble as he pulled out the thin book in one swift movement, opening it and quickly turning the pages as if looking at something vaguely uninteresting. He was hyperaware of Wayne's eyes flickering between his face and the half-burnt cover. "They miss things sometimes. I thought I'd take it down myself." He shut it and tucked it away, half-smiling. "Get it done properly." He looked back to the window.

The weight of Wayne's stare lifted after a few moments, and something took hold of Partridge, hooks dragging at his throat, forcing out the words.

"How long Preston? Till all this is gone? Till we burn every last bit of it?" He cursed the bitterness in his voice.

"Resources are tight. We'll get it all eventually." Wayne smiled, if one could call the slight pull of his lips that.

_He hasn't heard me at all, the fool. Maybe it's for the best._

The car stopped abruptly at a stretch of concrete – they'd reached the city walls. Here, the sunlight seemed to disappear again. Officers in black coats and helmets shouldered their guns to glance at identity cards before gesturing to their counterparts at the gates. Black, steel doors bearing a familiar insignia hissed as they slid open, giving way to the white sedan.

Through the closed windows, Father's sonorous voice was little more than a murmur but Partridge was not surprised to see Wayne unconsciously mouthing the words.

_**Libria, I congratulate you. At last, peace reigns in the heart of man. At last, war is but a word whose meaning fades from our understanding. At last, we are whole. Librians, there is a disease in the heart of man. Its symptom if hate. Its symptom is anger. Its symptom is rage. Its symptom is war.**_

The screens above the plazas and offices changed from Father's face to a startlingly crisp mushroom cloud rising over the Old City, then soldiers running over exploding fields and corpses, their too-young faces grimed with soot and blood.

_**The disease...is human emotion. But Libria, I congratulate you. For there is a cure for this disease. At the cost of the dizzying highs of human emotion, we have suppressed its abysmal lows**_. _**And you as a society have embraced this cure: Prozium.**_

Now the image was that of the glass capsule with its yellow liquid and its promise of hope, of peace, of...nothingness. Partridge swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat.

_**Now we are at peace with ourselves, and humankind is one. War is gone. Hate, a memory.**_

_Blood blossoming on the rebels' chests, their faces, soaking their hair as they lay motionless, painful breaths pushing through broken ribs, bones crunching under heavy black boots._

_**We are our own conscience now. And it is this conscience that guides us to rate EC-10 for emotional content all those things that might tempt us to feel again...and destroy them. **_

_The Mona Lisa, exquisite in its age, in its fragility, burning, burning..._

_**Librians, you have won. Against all odds and your own natures...you have survived.**_

Wayne's eyes met his, bright hazel on weary blue. In another lifetime, this would've been a passionate man, a brooding thinker, a zealous lover. And for a moment, Partridge saw that other man from behind the mask – _Bruce_ – but the beeping of their watches jarred him back to reality and the black device in Wayne's gloved hand.

"Every time we come from the Nethers to the city, it reminds me why we do what we do."

"It does?"

Wayne looked at him sharply. "I beg your pardon."

Partridge didn't dare look him in the eye – he'd given away enough already – instead injecting the faux-serum into his bloodstream. He gave the appropriate nod and the accompanying lie. "It does."

* * *

Slipping into the room with Kara's warm hand on the crook of his arm, Kal thought he'd never seen half these people. It was as if everyone in the building had dropped whatever they were doing and squeezed into the conference room. The normally cool room felt stuffy and more than one elbow dug into his side. There weren't enough chairs around the table, large that it was, in the middle of the room so people had taken to crowding around it. No one dared float despite the weak jokes and half-hearted dares; no intern was looking to be fired over an embarrassing display – or falling on a council member.

Taking a closer look, Kal realized everyone was wearing their formal House shoulder cloaks over their robes. Like Kara, his was red with a thin golden trim, simple compared to the embroidered, heavy fashion of those of others nearby. Kryptonians usually reserved their finer cloaks for social functions and political events, not emergency council meetings.

_Unless there is something to make a statement about._

"Ahem."

Murmured conversations fell silent as Jor-El took his place at the head of the table. He was broad-shouldered as Kal but his eyes were a silver gray, like his hair, and seemed to address every individual with a single sweep around the room. His shoulder cloak was the same red as that of his son and niece but of a richer fabric – _almost like what humans call velvet_ – and embellished with the golden symbols that denoted his status as the head of his House.

"My apologies for disrupting your busy day, _tantho_1and _tyntho_2, but the council would like your assistance on a matter of great importance."

"Please, _drygur molium_3, we are most honoured to serve the council." This came from a man with a long white braid across one shoulder.

There was a general sound of agreement from the group.

"Very well," said Jor-El, "The humans have proposed another treaty." He held up a hand, silencing the scoffing and sighs. "This treaty comes from Libria which you all know is..." He trailed off, looking around meaningfully.

After a few moments of confused silence and Kara's insistent look, Kal nervously raised a hand.

"Yes?"

All eyes turned to him.

"Libria is a city-state in the former Federal Republic of Germany in the European continent of the planet Earth. It was established after the Third World War in human history and is led by a figure called Father." He finished, nervously smoothing away an errant curl from his forehead.

"Thank you, Kal4," Jor-El smiled warmly at him before turning his attention back to the crowd, some of whom were processing the double meaning of his name. He tapped something on the table, conjuring a holo on a wall. "This is the message sent to us by the Librian leader, 'Father' as it were."

The holo was surprisingly good for a human projection, capturing each subtle shift of the man's face. From what Kal had seen in digitals, humans, despite being aliens, looked very much like Kryptonians. However, they aged faster and were less agile, and the sun of their planet sustained it, yes, but did not change their limited strength or give them the ability to fly.

This human in particular was of Asian descent – Kal recalled the term faintly – with a shaven head and a long white moustache. His dark eyes had the piercing look of an Earth bird of prey – _a hawk, yes, that was it._

"Our translators have done their best to interpret the meaning of the message you are about to see." Jor-El pressed another button and the holo began to speak, Kryptonian lettering appearing simultaneously underneath.

_**Greetings, people of Krypton. I am the Father of Libria and wish you nothing but peace and prosperity. It has been bought to my attention that several others of our kind have tried to make contact with your people in hopes of an alliance but such labours bore no fruit. Humans have a history of destruction, manipulation and greed, and your hesitance is completely understandable. I assure you things are different in Libria. What makes it unique from other human societies is its solution for the problems that have plagued humanity since its inception: emotions.**_

Kal, to the bemusement of those standing next to him, was furiously taking notes by hand. When they glanced over, their bemusement turned to surprise and shock – he was writing in English.

_**Let me explain. In the first years of the 21**__**st**__** century, a third World War broke out. Those of us who survived knew mankind could not survive a fourth, that our own volatile natures could simply no longer be risked. That the true source of inhumanity to man was his ability...to feel. The greatest scientists of our society came together to create Prozium, a substance that suppresses the emotions of humans, thus putting an end to the cruelty and barbarianism man suffered at the hands of his own kind. In Libria, there is no war, no murder, only peace and progress.**_

"Ridiculous," muttered the man with the white braid.

A woman with short green nodded in agreement, snorting.

_**I know what you are thinking: what guarantee is there? How do you know we are not creating an elaborate hoax to gain an invaluable ally? This is precisely why I humbly extend an invitation to a candidate from your planet to ours, a cultural agent if you will, to observe life in Librian society and how we are taking the necessary steps to eliminate the problems once thought inherent in mankind. Your chosen candidate will be partnered with our finest Grammaton Cleric, an enforcer of Librian law, and thus see our world from the viewpoint of one who works daily to keep our society safe and prosperous. All accommodations and costs for your candidate will be provided. I sincerely hope that you consider our invitation, and in time, a possibility of an alliance between our peoples. A bright future is ours if we allow it. Let us walk away from the darkness, towards the light. Peace to you all.**_

The holo faded away. And everyone began to speak at once.

"This is your chance, Kal."

Kal looked to his cousin, brows raised. "What? Me? Kara, your confidence is aspiring but...I'm just a simple reporter, a paper-pusher two rooms from Archives. I'm a nobody. And besides, Father choosing me – wouldn't it seem biased?"

Kara frowned. "How many of these meetings have you attended, cousin? Such decisions are based on votes."

"More reason to forget it all together."

"But Kal, you're...obsessed with humans! It's all you ever talk about, all that's ever interested in you. You're the perfect candidate!"

He stared; it wasn't like his cousin to lose her composure so easily. She huffed, folding her arms, looking pointedly ahead.

"Good people, please." Jor-El's voice rose over the conversations which quickly died away. "Firstly, we have decided to accept this most gracious offer."

Cries of shock and outrage rang out through the room.

"What?"

"Are you insane?"

"These are _humans_, for Rao's sake. They are not to be trusted!"

Jor-El waited patiently for the noise to stop before continuing. "No one here is obliged to do anything but your confidence in our wisdom is kindly requested." He paused, looking around with a much cooler gaze than before. "We are well aware that this is a risk but such a request is most unusual – and admittedly, most interesting. Humans have never presented a risk to us and are, in all honesty, a much frailer people and it is our responsibility to extend friendship to those who have earned it. Who knows? Perhaps they will surprise us." He rose, clasping his hands in front of him. "Is there is anyone here who wishes to accept the invitation on our behalf?"

He was met with silence.

"I understand your hesitance, your worry, your mistrust. And I warn you that this will be no easy experience. Your communication with Krypton will be limited and mostly for reporting purposes. You will be partnered with a human officer but will be required to conceal most of your gifts."

A few gasps.

"At this stage, humans know little of us other than our further advanced technology and our limited wars. We think it best to keep the focus on their people and not ours, in the event that their claims are, as many of you say, false. So I urge those who are considering serving the council in this most invaluable manner to think wisely. It is a great honour and yet, a great risk."

Kal hesitated – _a people without emotions_ – but the weight of Kara's stare and that of his childhood fantasies pushed him forward, at the forefront of the crowd. His skin prickled as everyone looked at him again, this time gaping instead of merely looking, but he adjusted his cloak and cleared his throat. "I would be honoured, _drygur molium. _Father."

* * *

As he watched Partridge disappear into the crowd of muted grays and pale blues, Bruce couldn't help but feel...well, nothing except the prickling sensation on his skin when something was amiss. His partner was a decent man and a seasoned veteran, one of the first Clerics but in his old age, he was becoming increasingly careless in both his work – and his facade. To the naked eye, he seemed as stable and calm as any Librian but to the trained gaze of a Grammaton Cleric, Partridge was as transparent as the holos they used at the monastery training programs.

And just as dangerous.

Taking a deep breath of filtered air, air cleaner than the almost-toxic fumes of the Nethers, Bruce entered the brisk flow of people going west. Their blank faces and the spaces between them satisfied him but he kept his eyes sharp and his mind clear. Not that the guards at each column by the Palace were inadequate, what with the young Clerics-in-training guiding their force and weapons with small fingers, but Bruce had years of training and honed instincts, things the children had yet to learn.

A man in a dark gray tunic stumbled, bumping into an Asian woman who fluidly turned and walked in the opposite direction. Bruce locked eyes with her as she passed and noting his uniform, she nodded tightly. Before he made another move, two guards had made in their way into the crowd and were dragging the man towards a dark-haired boy standing on a small platform at the foot of a column. He wore the crisp, black uniform of the monastery and his blue eyes were cool as he said something to the guards, and they took the screaming man away. The boy straightened, hands clasped behind his back, returning his attention to the pedestrians.

They're getting better, Bruce duly noted.

A shadow fell over the crowd as a blimp passed overhead, Father's face looking down on them, watchful eyes reminding them all of the small price for the grand buildings around them, the towers of glass and steel a testament to their victory. The blimp disappeared over the high walls of the Palace of Justice and the warmth of sunlight returned.

Bruce climbed the wide Palace steps, returning the nods of those who passed. The mechanical voices of computers echoed from hidden speakers:

_**The following items have been rated EC-10 – condemned – seven works of two-dimensional illustrated material, seven discs of musical content, 20 interactive strategy computer programs...**_

Marble clicked rhythmically under his boots as he approached the front desk. There was a new woman there, blank-faced as she ran the identity card under the scanner and returned it to him without touching his gloved fingers. He murmured a quick "thank you", and made his way to the elevators. One of the nine sets of doors slid open and there was a quick exchange of those leaving and entering. They stood in silence, eyes on the light that worked its way up the numbers, not touching. On the seventeenth floor, Bruce exited and made for his table but the beeping of his phone stopped him mid-stride. The slight change in frequency of the tone meant it was a call from the head office.

"Wayne," he answered.

"Cleric," the voice was decidedly male and unremarkable, "You have been summoned by Vice-Council Ducard of the Third Conciliary of the Tetragrammaton. Your presence is required immediately."

"Understood." He shut the phone and waited patiently for an elevator.

* * *

Glossary  
(1) _tantho_: Plural of tanth, a term of respect for a man. Akin to "gentlemen".  
(2) _tyntho_: Plural of tynth, the feminine of Tanth. Tynth means, roughly, Lady, or Madame.  
(3) _drygur molium_: The leader of the Science Council.  
(4) _kal_: Child; hence, Kal-El means Star Child

_Please let me know what you think._


	3. Chapter 02: Sacrifices

**02. SACRIFICES**

There were at least seven ways to disarm the guards flanking the twisting corridor but Bruce saw no reason to add another bloodstain to his jacket. Alfred did not approve of his 'theatrics', as the elder man put it, and would no doubt lecture him on the importance of appearance when he would see the dark stain under the collar. Until the guards gave him reason for concern, he did not need to draw the guns that slapped against his thigh with every other step. In his peripheral, said guards remained as they were, backs straight, arms tense, guns held across their Kevlar-bound chests. Sunlight that had managed to push through the heavy clouds filtered in through the skylights, glinting off the screens of their black helmets. As he passed the black-clad figures, sexless that they were in their shapeless coats, he caught glimpses of alert eyes and rigid lips. Drones were almost always heavily dosed but in the Hall of Victory, even more so, until the point they could only live and breathe their mission: protecting Father's closest confidant.

Bruce's steps were measured and clipped on the obsidian marble, so polished he could see the air filter blimp from beyond the skylights. He stopped at the tall, wooden doors at the end of the halls, nodding shortly to the Drones stationed on either side. "Cleric Bruce Wayne, summoned by the Vice-Council." He produced his identity card with practised ease.

The Drone with the broader shoulders moved forward, shouldering his gun to take the card and examine it carefully, as if searching for some defect.

Bruce waited patiently, aware of the other Drone's scrutiny, the helmeted head turned towards him without any feign of neutrality. Absently, he wondered if the level of paranoia instilled in them put severe pressure on their mental capacity and in turn, could compromise their mission.

"Alright," said the first Drone, handing back the card and immediately taking up his gun.

The other Drone looked at him a moment longer before tapping a complicated pattern on the door. There was a responding tap and the doors opened.

"Thank you." Bruce entered.

Though he hadn't stepped into its confines for nearly a decade, the office was as he remembered it: a rectangular room with the same glossy, black tiles as the hall, and black panelling. In the center was a wide glass table beside which stood a statue of a man with the literal weight of the world on his bronze shoulders. The luminous globe cast a strange, ethereal light on the guns of the Drones lining the wall. The high-backed chair behind the table was empty of its usual occupant who, instead, stood by the long, slim window on the far wall. Even as Bruce shut the door, the suited figure did not turn around.

"Mr. Wayne. It has been a long time." Even the voice was unchanged, deep and smooth with the lilt that spoke of the Old World, of before. "I trust you are well."

"Yes, thank you, sir."

The man nodded and turned. Age had touched his temples with silver and lined the corners of his mouth but otherwise, Ducard was unchanged. His eyes were the same unnerving blue as they settled on Bruce, moustache quirking as he half-smiled.

"My, how you've grown. How long has it been?" His tone was light, jovial almost, but his eyes remained cool and impassive.

"Seven years, sir."

"Yes. Yes, it has." Ducard circled him for a moment, shark-like, assessing the broad shoulders and sculpted arms under the misleading cut of the Cleric jacket. He gave a sharp nod of approval before taking his seat.

Bruce remained standing.

Ducard opened a file on his desk, leafing through the pages as he spoke. "Thank you for coming, Cleric. I know you are a busy man – and a family one, at that."

"Yes, sir – a boy and a girl. The boy's in the monastery himself, on path to becoming a Cleric."

"Good. And the girl?"

"Computer technology, Father's Intelligentsia – she is the top student in her class."

"She takes after her father, no doubt. Your friend, the Dawes girl – the mother, I take it?"

Bruce nodded tightly.

Ducard smoothed a paper in the file. "Lovely girl, I remember. How is she?"

"My spouse was arrested and incinerated for sense offense four years ago, sir."

"By yourself?"

"No, sir, by another."

At this, Ducard looked up from his papers. "How did you feel about that?"

"I'm sorry. I don't...fully understand, sir."

The other man smiled, brows raised, shrugging his shoulders slightly as if it were the simplest question in the world. "How did you _feel_?"

"I didn't feel anything."

"Really? And how is it that you came to miss it?"

Bruce swallowed, his collar suddenly tight. "I...I've asked myself that same question, sir. I don't know."

Ducard looked at him for a moment before closing the file. "A nearly unforgivable lapse, Cleric. With the calibre of your training, there is no excuse. I trust you will be more vigilant in the future."

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He gestured for Bruce to sit. "I assume you know the role I now play in the Hall of Victory."

The synthetic leather crackled as he sat down. "Yes, sir, you are Father's voice."

Another half-smile. "Indeed I am. And that is why I've called you here today, Mr. Wayne. Father has extended Libria's hand in friendship towards Krypton. As you know, relations between humans and the Kryptonians have always been strained, especially during the Third World War. But, in light of Libria's recent advancements in the eradication of contraband materials and progress in the infiltration of the Underground, Father has decided to propose another alliance."

Bruce nodded, mentally sifting through lessons on the planet. _Relatively peaceful with little war. Dependant on the energy of its sun Rao. Technologically advanced than Earth. Little is known about the people due to limited contact. First Libria-Krypton alliance proposed at the launch of the Prozium Project._

As if reading his thoughts, Ducard continued smoothly, "Thirty years to the day of the last proposal, and we have received a semblance of acceptance."

"Are there conditions?"

"Something like that. You see, Mr. Wayne, Father offered the Kryptonian Science Council – elected leaders of the planetary government – the opportunity to send one of their own to test the waters, so to speak, before deciding to ally themselves with us. This effectively puts Libria in a position of great scrutiny so Father asked me to assign this mission to the most capable person." Ducard looked him straight in the eyes.

Bruce blinked. "But sir, surely someone better versed in interplanetary relations –."

"Mr. Wayne, under my tutelage, you were a most prodigal student and are now the top Gramatton Cleric in all of Libria."

"You were a very effective teacher, Vice-Council."

"Perhaps. But it is your resolve and dedication that earned you your position. I know you, Mr. Wayne, better than you think. You are able, on some level, to sense how an offender thinks, to...put yourself in their position. I cannot think of anyone else to illustrate the finest Libria has to offer."

"Very well, sir."

"I am sure you will not disappoint, Cleric." Ducard opened another file, this one thick with documents. "The Kryptonian agent will be reporting to his or her supervisors on your work as a Cleric as well as your role as a citizen of Libria. In order for a completely immersive experience, they will be housing with you. All expenses of their stay will be covered by the Palace of Justice."

"My guest room is currently occupied by my personal servant."

Ducard waved a hand. "If you are in need of additional furniture, forward an order to the Hall of Finance."

"Yes, sir."

"The agent will be arriving sometime tonight. You will be notified. Please make the necessary arrangements, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce rose to his feet. "Yes, sir." He turned to leave.

"Bruce?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You would've made your father very proud."

"Thank you, sir."

Ducard nodded abstractly, motioning at the Drones who moved forward to open the doors. Bruce walked into sunlit hall, leaving the shadows and the man within them behind.

* * *

A quick squeeze to his shoulder and Jor-El sat down beside him. Kal smiled, willing his nerves to calm as the weight of the Council's collective gaze fell upon him. Some of the eyes were soft, with pity or understanding he wasn't sure, while others were sharp and calculating, as if they could dissect his mind right there and then.

"I hope you understand the seriousness of this mission, Kal-El," said a woman with hawkish eyes. "Your grandfather too was an enthusiast of human culture but he was cautious. I hope you will follow his example."

He inclined his head. "Of course."

"Are you certain you can cope with the isolation?" Jor-El's serene smile had been replaced by a slight frown.

"I'm not a child, Father," said Kal, a little impatiently, "And I will have contact with you when I report, won't I?"

"Contact will be very limited," said a man with red hair that looked like an oliphent's(1) mane around his bearded face. "Weekly at the most and almost always for reporting purposes. I'm afraid you will not be able to speak with your family unless it's an emergency."

Kal nodded slowly. "I thank you for your concern but I will not be completely isolated. My human partner? Won't he or she have a family?"

"Yes," said Jor-El, skimming through some holo files, "A boy and a girl, and a servant as well."

"A slave?" asked a pale-haired woman.

"Slavery was abolished many years ago in the region of Libria," supplied Kal, earning him a thoughtful look. "I'm assuming this servant's housing is provided along with payment in exchange for service."

"So you are well-versed in human culture, boy?" asked the red-haired man, regarding him with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity.

"Kal has always spent a lot time in Archives," said Jor-El. "He learned English through holos and is also able to read and write it quite well."

Kal tried not to gape at his father – was that pride in the other man's voice? When had shutting yourself away with dusty tomes and fuzzy digitals become admirable in the House of El? He schooled his expression into something more attentive than shocked when he realized the pale-haired woman was speaking.

"– and you will only be able to take a few items. They're provided us a list of materials they've deemed contraband. We trust you to use your discretion. You will be provided with clothing and food. Unless there is a change of circumstance, you will take your meals with your assigned human partner and maybe, their family. You will also be housing with your partner and their family. You are to accompany your partner to all missions and social functions. Reports are to be sent only to a member of the Council as their contents are highly classified. You will be responsible for your own safety but will not use your gifts unless there is no other means of escaping danger. Remember, you are an observer and will be expected not to interfere in the dealings of humans. If you will something is amiss, state it in your report. Always speak to humans in their language – only reports should be spoken in Kryptonian. Any questions?"

Kal blinked. "I – no, I don't think so."

"Good," said Jor-El, "Then it's settled. Your ship will be leaving at sunrise so you will be arriving on Earth at night."

Everyone rose and Kal scrambled to his feet, nearly knocking his notes off his table.

The red-haired man nodded solemnly at him. "May you fare well, Kal-El, son of Jor-El."

The other council members echoed the formal wish, all except Jor-El who took his hands. "My son. May you bring honour to our house and to our people. If ever you are lost, look to the stars and know you are loved, know you are not alone. May Rao's warmth reach you in the darkest of nights and may Mithen's shadow cover you in the brightest of days. May you fare well, Kal-El, son of Krypton."

"Thank you, Father," Kal whispered.

Jor-El gave his hands a squeeze before giving him a gentle push. "Go, Kal, your cousin is no doubt waiting with bated breath. Put her energy to some good use and prepare yourself for the journey ahead."

"Yes, Father."

"At Rao's first light. Do not forget."

* * *

The man standing behind the desk was different from the man who was there a month ago but had the same bland expression and pressed shirt. His nametag, however, said Benjamin. "What can I do for you, Cleric?"

"Prosecutorial evidence for A.N.R. 136890." At the man's unchanged expression, Bruce added, "I need it."

"Of course," murmured the man, flipping through the pages of the giant log book.

"It was late this afternoon and may not have showed up on the records yet."

"I'm very sorry, Cleric. Nothing had been logged and nothing is pending under that entry."

"It was an item of evidence brought in personally by Grammaton Errol Partridge. Check again."

The officer looked at him strangely. "Sir, Cleric Partridge has not entered anything in for weeks."

A cool breeze brushed against the knuckles of his bare hands. "You're mistaken. It was a book of some kind."

"Cleric." The man turned the book so its neat, cramped text faced him. "There's nothing." His expression betrayed nothing but polite disinterest.

_I was right._

Bruce peered for a moment at the page before him. "Thank you." He didn't stay to hear the man's reply, instead turning on his heel and leaving the department, pulling on his gloves as he did so.

Right on time, his phone beeped from within the depths of his pocket. He answered. "Alfred."

"Sir. The preparations you requested have been made. Should we be expecting our guest sometime tonight?"

"I'm not sure. Please be on standby for further instructions."

"Of course."

"Have the children been informed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Thank you, Alfred."

"A pleasure, Master Wayne."

Bruce hung up and then dialled another number. A mechanical voice, female but devoid of any warmth, asked him how much reinforcement he'd need. A quick glance at a window showed a sky marked with the fiery red-orange of the Librian sunset. The Nethers were like minefields at night, danger lurking at every shadow and step. He wouldn't put it past Partridge to set himself as trap on behalf of the rebels.

He asked for twice the number of Drones he would usually take.

Something scraped at his throat as he walked out of the Palace, the cool evening air on his face. He couldn't quite place it but what did he know of betrayal?

* * *

Mithen was a pale smudge in the azure that streaked the horizon. Stars danced, winking between clouds like the stones humans called diamonds. He'd tried explaining diamonds to his mother once, saying how pretty she'd look with one at each ear. She'd laughed of course. Whether it was at the thought of compressed coal being much sought after or the idea of humans willingly piercing holes in themselves for vanity's sake, Kal wasn't sure.

"Hey." Kara sidled up beside him, a steaming cup in her hands. At his raised brows, she shrugged, turning her attention to the lightening sky. "It's one human import I can tolerate."

"Tolerate," Kal muttered, smiling. "I'll miss you the most. After Krypton, of course."

She swatted him playfully. "Cheeky brat. I come before the planet, cousin, don't forget it." She took a sip of her coffee. Her smile faltered. "What do you think it'll be like, Kal?"

"The coffee? More sugar than milk, knowing you."

She rolled her eyes. "_Kal_. Earth, your mission."

He grinned, dodging another swat before sobering. "I'm not sure, to be honest. It's one thing to know something in theory –."

"–then to know it in practise."

"Exactly. But Kara, humans _without_ emotions? Considering everything I've read, everything I've seen – well, it's a little hard to imagine."

"Is it?"

"Novels, poetry, epics – all produced through pain, triumph and joy. The foundation of human history and culture is built on feeling."

Kara took a generous slurp of coffee before replying. "Maybe. But what about their history of destruction and inflicting pain on one another? Don't those vices take root in jealousy, in rage? Humans have done horrendous things to each other, Kal. Don't be so quick to overlook it."

"But –."

Kara's holopad started to beep. She downed the rest of her coffee before turning off the alarm. "Are you packed?"

"Yeah, I think so." He gestured at the small bag on his bed.

"Alright. Let's go. Your father is probably waiting for us at the launch pad right now."

"Shouldn't I eat something first?"

She gave him a look. "You can grab something at the canteen. And I'm sure your human partner will stuff you like a droth(2) when you arrive. Come on." Grabbing his bag, she left the room.

He gave the room one last look over before clapping his hands. The lights dimmed, bed, desk and holo screen fading into the darkness. Taking a deep breath, he left, determined not to look back.

* * *

Wet concrete and the sweet smell of rotting wood greeted him as he made his way through the path cut through the wreckage. The yellowed church jutted out between the jagged remnants of shops and bakeries. Bruce glanced over his shoulder; the nearest Drone was a good thirty feet away, pointing their machine gun at something in what little remained of a book shop window.

The church door was half-open, light spilling onto the faded Latin scratched into the pavement. Bruce entered, ignoring the rain of dust that fell onto his hair and shoulders as the door's hinges creaked in protest.

Moonlight streamed in through stained glass and bullet holes in the crumbling concrete. There were scorch marks where painted angels had been, chipped plaster in place of watchful saints. The floor was thick with dust except for the footprints that made their way up the aisle and towards the second-row pews where Partridge sat. His brows were furrowed, lips moving silently, a book in his hands. His head was tilted and his hands were bare, fingers running over the pages as if they could capture the words there. He didn't look up, even as Bruce's shadow fell over him, blocking out the light.

"You always knew."

Bruce did not respond, pushing his gun against the cover of the book. Yeats, he noted, and a rather thick volume of it. He also noted the tremble of Partridge's hands as he lowered the book, eyes still not meeting his.

"But I being poor have only my dreams." His breath was a single, hazy puff. "I've spread my dreams under your feet." His eyes were distant, no longer focused on the gun. "Tread softly...because you tread on my dreams." He looked up slowly. "I assume you dream, Wayne?"

"I'll do what I can to see they go easy on you."

Partridge smiled ruefully. "We both know...they never go easy."

"Then I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. You don't even know the meaning. It's just a...vestigial word for a feeling you've never felt." He suddenly got to his feet, ignoring Brfuce's gun at his chest. "Have you ever felt happiness? Sorrow? Love? Bruce, tell me, have you ever felt any of those things?" He was trembling, fist clenched. "Don't you see? It's gone. Everything that makes us what we are – traded away for...for this." He gestured at the church and the headless Madonna at the altar and the dust on their shoulders.

"There's no war. No murder."

The other man's eyes were bright in the semi-darkness. "What is it you think we do?"

"No." Bruce shook his head. "No. You've been with me. You've seen how it can be – the jealousy, the rage."

"A heavy cost. I'd pay it gladly." Partridge moved forward.

"Don't."

The book of poetry in one hand, Partridge took another step.

"I'm warning you, Partridge. Errol. Please." Suddenly, there was a hand on his face, solid and so very warm, fingers tracing his lips –.

Bang.

Partridge's book hit the ground before his body, unsettling the dust. His eyes were still open, very wide and very blue. They stared blankly up at Bruce who stared back.

He raised a gloved hand to his face.

"Cleric."

He looked up. A man in a gray jacket was standing by the door. His skin was dark and free of any blemishes as he stepped into the moonlight, teeth almost too-bright when he smiled. "Nice work though a little sloppy considering your record." He walked up to the body and looked at it for a moment before extending his hand. "Brandt."

"Wayne." Bruce ignored the hand until it dropped. He looked over Brandt's shoulders at the Drones who had arrived. "Have the book confiscated and the body taken to the coroner."

As he walked away, Brandt called after him. "You've been summoned by the Vice-Council. Something about an agent's arrival."

Bruce only quickened his pace.

* * *

Glossary

(1) oliphant: A type of large Kryptonian animal domesticated and used as a beast of burden. Despite the similarity to our word "elephant," there was little resemblance to this Earth creature except that both are large. The Oliphent is not even a mammal, but a warm-blooded, egg-laying creature (like dinosaurs).  
(2) droth: A type of large Kyrptonian sea-bird. 


End file.
